My Crime of Passion
by Kristen Elizabeth
Summary: I'm not a CSI anymore. I'm in transition. Spoilers for 9x05, Leave Out All the Rest.


Disclaimer: Characters contained within do not belong to me.

Author's Notes: It's really late so I'll just say, thanks for reading. Big hugs for everyone. We all need them.

* * *

My Crime of Passion

by Kristen Elizabeth

* * *

_Ever has it been that love knows not its own depths until the hour of separation. – Kahlil Gibran_

* * *

It had been a week since her feet had touched land. After seven days on the open ocean surrounded by nothing but the endless waters of the Pacific and with virtually no other company but a hundred and fifty unwashed college kids and aging hippies, Sara could understand why there had been mutiny on the Bounty.

"Eager for shore leave?"

It was a good thing that the ship had a high railing; she had something to grab onto when she jumped at the sudden sound of the voice behind her.

Dr. Byron Ward smiled at her startled expression. "My apologies," he said in his soft British accent. "I sometimes like to be alone with the ocean myself."

In the unforgiving afternoon light, Sara studied him. It wasn't hard to understand why most of her fellow female passengers (and a few of the men) had quickly developed a crush on the marine biologist from Oxford. Forty-three, six foot-two, hazel eyes with just a touch of grey at his temples. And, of course, that accent.

But Sara's interest in Byron was limited to his mind. He knew absolutely everything there was to know about the seven seas and the creatures that lived in them, yet shared his knowledge with humility and a genuine desire to educate, rather than show off. She admired that. It reminded her of…

"Sara?"

She shook her head to clear way the face she could never forget. "Sorry. Off in my own world." Looking back at the water, and the strip of land in the not-so-far distance, Sara smiled. "It'll be nice to sleep without rocking and rolling."

"And to shower with water that's actually hot," he added. "The little luxuries of life that we so often take for granted."

"I try not to take things for granted now," Sara mused, tucking a wind-swept curl behind her ear. "That's what this whole trip is about."

He was watching her profile, but she didn't turn her head to look at him. "You know, you're quite the odd case on this ship of eccentrics. I do believe it's the first time I've seen a criminalist join one of these expeditions."

"I'm not a CSI anymore," she was quick to remind him. "I'm just…" She stopped a second later, unable to come up with a suitable label for herself. "In transition," she finally decided.

"Like a butterfly."

Sara's throat closed up suddenly. "No. Not really."

Byron was quiet for a moment. "I've never met a woman who didn't like being compared to a butterfly."

"Butterflies are fragile," Sara said, staring at the horizon. "It takes so little pressure to break them."

"Then I take back my metaphor. Because I already know at least one thing about you, Sara Sidle." Byron reached out and covered her hand with his. She looked at him, their eyes locking. "You are not easily broken."

The jarring blast of the ship's horn had them both jumping. Sara drew her hand back against her chest, cradling it like it had been injured.

"We'll be landing soon," she murmured, unnecessarily.

Byron cleared his throat. "What hotel will you be staying at?" She repeated the name from memory, barely aware of her mouth moving to make the words. "Small world," he said with a twist of irony. "So am I."

Snapping herself to attention, Sara stepped away from the railing. "Well. If I don't see you while we're on the island, enjoy your shore leave."

The British scientist sighed and nodded. "Same to you, Sara." As she walked away, she heard him repeat, "Same to you."

* * *

She had never felt like kissing dirt before, but when she stepped onto the solid ground of Easter Island, Sara considered it for a brief moment. Although the cruise ship she'd called home for a month and half was hardly shabby, there was something so civilized about being back on actual land, even if it was only for one night.

Sara had several things on her mind as she checked into her hotel. A steaming hot bath topped the list, followed closely by solitary meal and a chance to sit down at her laptop and check her email.

The bath was everything she'd been dreaming of and so much more. She lounged in the water until it grew tepid. Only then did she rise and wrap herself in her terrycloth robe. She ordered dinner, local delicacies, and when it arrived, she ate with gusto. Everything tasted wonderful now that she was no longer eating because she had to or because it was expected of her.

After her meal, Sara retrieved her laptop from her overnight bag and plugged it in. She'd chosen her hotel with great foresight; it was one of only two establishments on the island with wireless internet access.

There were slew of emails waiting for her. She only recognized a few handles, and quickly deleted everything else. Once the junk was gone, she found herself with two messages from Greg, a forward from Nick and something with an attachment from Grissom that had been sent only five days earlier.

Her hand shook as she opened the .mov file.

His face filled her screen, making her dinner churn in her stomach. She moved the cursor over the play button, but let it hover there for a long minute. Would hearing his voice after so much time be like giving cocaine to a recovering addict?

With a deep, fortifying breath, she tapped her laptop's sensor pad.

"Sara," Grissom began awkwardly. "Dear Sara? How do you start one of these things?" Confused, he shook his head. "Bear with me; I have no idea if there's any webcam etiquette I should be adhering to."

She bit her lip to keep her smile at bay.

"But if this is our only means of communication, then I suppose I'll have to learn." He lowered his gaze just then, as if he was looking down at his hands for guidance. "Obviously, I got your video." Grissom looked up into the camera. "It was…it is so good to see you smile, Sara."

Sara reached out to touch the screen, as if she could actually feel his beard on her fingers.

"Which only makes what I have to tell you that much harder," he continued with a sigh. Her hand dropped away. There was a long pause, like he was trying to muster the right combination of words. "A case came in a few days ago. S&M gone wrong."

There was a sudden chill in the room.

"I went to see Heather for advice, but somehow ended up…in her guest room," Grissom went on. "And Sara…"

She shook her head at his terribly sad expression. "Please…" she whispered, begging him as if she could make him stop. "No…"

"Oh, god, Sara….I wish I could tell you nothing happened, but…" Through a growing film of hot tears, she watched him run a hand down his face. "I'm so sorry, honey."

It was the endearment that made her slam her laptop closed, cutting him off. Honey. How could he call her that in the same breath he used to tell her that he'd slept with another woman?

She recognized the signs of panic as they enveloped her. Short, panting gasps, rapid heart rate, tingling extremities, nausea. Grissom and Heather. Heather and Grissom. Naked. In bed. Joined.

Her head spun. Would he have made love to Heather the same way he'd made love to her? Or would he be rougher, knowing she could take it? She was a dominatrix, after all. Maybe she'd do things for him that Sara never would have dreamed. Maybe that's what he'd always wanted. Maybe that's why he wouldn't come with her. Deep down inside, in the places Grissom hid from the world, he hadn't really wanted damaged, vanilla Sara Sidle.

She didn't realize she was crying until she couldn't breathe anymore. She had to force air into her lungs because life had to go on. Hadn't she basically released Grissom from his obligations to her? Couldn't she truly blame herself for this? How long had she imagined Grissom would pine for her before he moved on?

A while, she admitted to herself as the tears rolled down her cheeks. At least a little while. And if he had to move on, did he have to move on to Heather?

It might have been minutes or maybe it was hours that she lay on the hard mattress of her hotel room bed, curled up in a tight ball to protect herself. She might have just stayed there, missed the boat the next day, wasted away without caring, if not for a sudden knock on her door.

"Sara?" After two unanswered knocks, Byron finally called to her through the door. "I know you can't be sleeping. You never sleep." She pushed herself up into a sitting position and swiped at her wet cheek. "And if you're still in your bath, you probably need to come out before you turn into a prune."

That earned him a hint of a smile.

"All right," he said a second later. "I'm sorry if I bothered you. Goodnight."

She was on her feet before she could think to stop herself. Opening the door just a bit, Sara looked down the hallway at the man's retreating back.

"Byron," she called out to him.

He turned around and immediately his forehead crinkled. She must have looked as bad as she felt. "Are you all right?" he asked. "You look as though you've been crying."

Sara folded her arms over the sash of her robe. "Did you want something or were you just dropping by?"

"Um…a drink," he said, still frowning. "I thought you might want to join me for one."

She didn't give herself time to think. She just acted. Anything to keep the grief at bay. "Give me ten minutes. I'll meet you in the lobby."

* * *

"I've been trying to figure out a new metaphor for you." Byron lifted his half-empty Scotch glass to her. "Since you don't seem to like butterflies."

Three martinis dulled the pain he unknowingly inflicted by mentioning Grissom's favorite species. "I don't not like butterflies," Sara corrected him. "I just don't think I am one." She bit into an olive. "I don't want to be put behind glass."

"You realize that makes no sense."

Sara's smile was loopy. "Maybe not to you. But it would to him."

"There's a 'him'?" Byron asked with a raised eyebrow. She lifted her shoulders. "Does he have a name?"

"Gil," she whispered, the word slipping out unbidden. Sara blinked. "You'd like him. He is to bugs what you are to fish." She drained her glass and signaled the bartender for another round. "But he's not mine anymore. She has him now."

Byron propped his head up on his hand. "And…you're fine with that?"

"I want him to be happy."

"That's noble."

Sara grasped the new drink the bartender handed her. "It's bullshit," she snapped. "I hope her whip slips and renders him infertile." Byron's laughter filled the empty hotel bar. "I didn't really mean that," Sara said a second later.

"It's all right if you did, just for a moment," he told her. "What amused me is that you're quite completely smashed, yet still managed to properly use the word 'render.' Not many women can do that."

"I'm a very articulate drunk," she informed him. Sara paused with the glass halfway to her lips. "I haven't gotten drunk in a long time, actually."

Byron smiled. "You're in one of the farthest corners of the globe, Sara. No one has to know."

"Yeah." She glanced at him. "You're right."

They watched each other for a few seconds before Byron broke eye contact. "I want to ask you to come back to my room with me, Sara," he said, looking at the shelves of liquor bottles behind the bar. "What do you want?"

What did she want? A few hours ago, all she'd wanted was a bath, some food and contact with the outside world. Now…all she wanted was to forget.

* * *

He wasn't Grissom. He didn't kiss like Grissom. He didn't hold her like Grissom. He didn't feel like Grissom. Not that Byron didn't feel good. He was doing everything right, finding and caressing all the right spots, even through the fog of alcohol. But something wasn't right. Something was very definitely off.

Even as her mind raced, his lips skimmed down the length of her throat, heading for her bared breast. The first time she'd undressed for Grissom, he'd studied her like she was a newly discovered piece of art. Byron didn't have time to look her over; he was too busy fumbling with the top button of her jeans.

She let him shove his hand down into the warmth at the center of her body. Grissom's fingers had always played in her slick wetness like a world-renowned pianist. Byron was a man on a mission; lubricate in order to penetrate.

"Sara," Byron groaned into her neck. "You feel incredible, honey."

The word, Grissom's word, punched her in the gut, wiping away any lingering fog from the alcohol. "No," she said, pushing at his shoulders. "Stop!"

"Sara?" To his credit, he stopped. Pulling his hand out of her jeans, he sat back on the bed. "I thought you wanted this," he said after a long moment of silence

"So did I." Her head began to throb. "And I do. Just not…" She swallowed a lump in her throat. "I'm sorry, Byron." Yanking the cups of her bra back into place, Sara made a grab for her shirt. "I have to go."

"Sara!" Byron caught up with her at the door, holding his hand over the frame to prevent her from opening it. "If he's with someone else, what's stopping you from moving on, as well?"

Her answer was simple. "I still love him."

* * *

Back in her room, Sara took another, shorter bath. It was past two in the morning, but she powered up her laptop once again, logged on and opened up Grissom's email.

The first part of his message was just as painful the second time around. But this time, she didn't stop it.

"I'm so sorry, honey," Grissom said with tired eyes. "I kissed her. It didn't go any further than that, but…" He shook his head. "You deserve to know the truth."

Sara pressed a hand to her heart. Her suddenly lighter heart.

"My life is empty without you, Sara. But I'm not so far gone as to think Heather can fill that void, even for one night." Looking straight at the camera, straight into her soul, Grissom smiled sadly. "You are the love of my life, no matter how far apart we are. And I truly believe…because it would kill me not to…that when the time is right, we'll be together again."

The video clip ended there. This time, Sara gently closed her laptop, picked up the phone on the nightstand and dialed the front desk.

"I know it's late," she apologized to the tired-sounding clerk. "But I need to place an international call."

* * *

Fin


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